


i don't kiss losers and i don't kiss winners

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Rimming, Slut Shaming, cock blocking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:17:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alexander is getting married. burr tries to tell himself he's not devastated.</p><p>throw john laurens into the mix, and aaron is completely miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't kiss losers and i don't kiss winners

**Author's Note:**

> prompt on [ham_kink over at dreamwidth](https://ham-kink.dreamwidth.org/937.html?thread=13737#cmt13737) that got me writing this morning, god bless you whoever wanted this
> 
> psa john laurens isn't a precious innocent flower, he's calculating and proud and can be downright cruel
> 
> title is from your honor by regina spektor
> 
> warnings for gendered slurs, gratuitous pining, and john being a big meanie

Considering it, Burr thinks that perhaps Laurens is even more insufferable than Hamilton.

Of course, there is none of the reluctant affection he has toward Hamilton in his relationship with Laurens. They come as a sort of package deal, but he could never understand the supposedly infamous charm of John Laurens - personally, he can’t wrap his head around him, and Burr does not like when people do not speak plainly. Ironic, Hamilton would tell him if he ever voiced it - and it is an inaccurate assessment, because Burr has never lied, has never even so much as omitted. Every opinion he has, Alexander simply pokes his own imaginary holes in. He finds emptiness where there is none, pushes Aaron for more when he does not have it.

Alexander has never been taught the value of silence.

Aaron does regret his quiet at certain times. Because of it, he has a reputation, one of cool collectedness. On the rare occasions he loses control, it is the first thing in the papers in the morning, and he cannot afford that with his ambition. So his life has become an endless cycle of biting his tongue, even when he knows he should speak.

He should speak now.

Laurens is in his face, and his whiskey breath pours hot into Burr’s nose. Burr pulls a disgusted face, and Hamilton, shoved back to the tavern table where Mulligan and Lafayette are still seated, laughs uproariously, absolutely drunk himself. He looks beautiful when he laughs, Burr thinks, and - no, that’s not it. It’s not the laughter. It’s the freedom, something he allows himself so rarely.

Burr tries not to think about how he intruded on it, about how Alexander is only free with these three men - his closest friends - and not, never, with him.

Laurens is poking at his chest, now, accusing him of having “someone on the side.” Voice singsong, a taunt. It’s crude, and Burr should have expected it, walking into a stag night. Laurens is loud and raunchy while sober, always scandalizing Hamilton and making him keel over with his daring jokes. Rich boy, the luxury of growing up where your every idea is coddled and praised. Maybe it’s a Southern thing, but Burr far prefers the apparently uptight decorum of New York. He prefers the cold. He prefers being able to burrow, to hide away from unwanted conversation.

John Laurens loves openly and touches everyone he loves and Alexander has picked up on this, touches him back, and Burr watches them and yearns and pines and he doesn’t know why. He gets Alexander alone, the only man he’s really allowed in, the only one who’s bothered to pick his brain, and inevitably Laurens bounds through, happily, uncaring, and makes it all about himself. He is hotheaded and rash and Burr doesn’t know what Washington sees in him, why he keeps him so close. Strategically, he’s useless. Alexander’s mind is sharp and he is prolific, at least, to offset the blind ire in him. Burr could do a lot of good, sharing the helm of the General’s ship, but he was never given the chance. His spot is occupied by a Southern aristocrat, the son of a slaveowning, slave-trading family whose foot-stomping opposition to such practices is at this point unbecoming at best. He has no ideas of his own, no solution to the problem.

Burr has to remind himself to calm down. He closes his eyes, breathes through his nose. His hands, he keeps clasped at his front. “I should go,” he says, and shuffles. He is surprised when Hamilton grabs his arm.

“No, these guys should go!” he impassions, sounding like he means it. In spite of himself, Burr’s heart soars. Laurens and Lafayette and Mulligan are complaining loudly, but Alexander shoots them a glare and pulls him aside. But it is only to discuss Theodosia, and Burr feels his heart drop into his stomach as quickly as it had taken flight. Alexander prods like a friend would, and Burr has a sense that he should be grateful for this, because it is all he will ever get. Alexander is getting married tomorrow - a chapter closed, and then Aaron can move on with his life. He focuses on the weight of Hamilton’s hand on his shoulder, something to take with him. After tomorrow, he will immerse himself in his work, and pretend not to see Hamilton. It will work, after a while - the burning in the pit of his stomach will die down. It always does.

“You’re very kind,” he tells Alexander, and for the first time, he means it. He gives him a reassuring smile as he explains the situation. Alexander’s eyes go wide but he nods in understanding - there is a bit of each of them in the other, Burr remembers. A tomcat sensibility, though Burr is much better at hiding his, or actually cares to.

He walks out of the tavern to jeers over another toast, and Alexander does not catch his eye after they say their goodbyes. He stares at Laurens, instead. 

His cloak feels particularly heavy as he walks home, the click of his heels sharp on the cobblestone.

*

Burr is happy to have been invited to the wedding. There is drink aplenty, and given the crowd, he is unlikely to actually spend too much time speaking to Alexander, so he indulges, feeling pleasantly loose as he dances with Angelica Schuyler, who is lovely and dripping with class. She is eloquent and beautiful, deep skin only a shade or two lighter than his own. He thinks of Theodosia and briefly wishes he could have brought her - he knows how she loves parties.

Aaron’s feet are a little heavy through their waltz, but Angelica gracefully picks up the lead where he loses it, and he kisses her hand and bows as thanks after the dance. She doesn’t blush. He appreciates that. He could do with a night off from his usual flirting, and is surprised to find how much he is enjoying it.

John Laurens sits to the left of Hamilton at the long table across the room, and the two of them clink glass after glass of champagne, wrapped up in each other. Burr’s face suddenly feels very hot and he’s not sure if it’s just the drink. He focuses his attention on Elizabeth, who glides over to him and thanks him for coming, and he kisses her cheek and congratulates her on her marriage to a great man. Not a good man, but a great one. She laughs and it makes him sad. Hopefully Hamilton will be good to her, tame down his inner ferality.

He takes a seat on a bench by the ballroom’s entry for a rest, and as he scans the room his eyes linger on Laurens, his hand on the nape of Hamilton’s neck, leaning in to whisper something in his ear above the loudness of the band. They look like schoolchildren as Hamilton giggles, hunching over into himself and laughing. John grins and looks accomplished for putting him in such a state. Burr’s skin itches.

He slips out without congratulating Hamilton, and when he realizes his mistake he knows he will regret it, but he also knows that Hamilton will never leave him alone, so he will get the chance later. Right now, he needs to rest. He climbs the stairs of the inn and gets his key in the lock without much difficulty, collapses on the stiff bed. He sighs deeply into the mattress and undresses himself without getting up, and he finds himself exhausted but unable to sleep. He tosses and turns for a while and decides that this is what Hamilton must feel like, mind always racing. He just wishes it were productive; the images he gets are Hamilton’s small hands, Hamilton’s wide smile. A familiar image of Hamilton some distance away and John Laurens, and now Elizabeth Schuyler, between them.

*

It is a week before the subject comes up again. After that night of fitful rest, Burr had awoken feeling surprisingly refreshed, fully ready to move on. He had gone about his business as he’d expected, buried his nose in his papers. He dedicates all his energy to the work that seems to flood his desk these days, since he had taken up intelligence sorting in his worsening health. In truth, he does not miss the battlefield; the battlefield is for men without daughters, he assumes.

But a week on, during one of his usual late nights, there is a pounding at his door. Burr starts - all of the men in this building are too busy to bother him if any of them are working this late. Burr rises slowly and leaves his dinner - for he often takes his dinner in here, nowadays - cooling on the desk to cross to the door.

He is not expecting John to be waiting for him.

Laurens seems as impatient as ever, hip cocked in a feign of nonchalance but arms crossed over his chest, one foot tapping anxiously on the marble. He manages to look down at Burr though they are of a height. Burr had no idea Laurens even knew where his office was. He must have asked Washington.

“Laurens,” he says flatly. “You’re still in town.” He steps back with the door to allow John entry, and he strides through as if he belongs there. Aaron’s blood boils, very slightly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure,” he says quietly, and Laurens turns on his heel to face him, his hands now lowered to his sides. His back is stock-straight.

“It occurred to me, Burr, that you and I have more in common than we might think.”

Burr scoffs. He has never taken kindly to the insinuation that he has much in common with anybody - let alone a privileged _child_ like John Laurens. His image of Henry Laurens’ mansion is one of grand decadence, some filthy piece of property tended to impeccably by slaves. Blood in the walls. There is no commonality in that for a man as proud and hardworking as Aaron Burr.

“How do you mean?” is what he asks Laurens, because he remembers his reputation.

Laurens clicks his tongue, turns again to look at the painting on Burr’s office wall. His grandfather. A kind light in his eyes but with the spite of God himself behind them, Burr remembers. Laurens’ thighs are lean and accentuated by the close cut of his breeches. Burr shivers with disgust, catching himself looking at Laurens’ firm ass under the tails of his coat. He has the kind of body that looks good in anything, but he dresses it proudly, with impeccable care so as to project a certain status, one which he does not deserve. Hamilton does the same thing, but for Hamilton it is justified - Burr knows how carefully he launders what non-military issued clothes he has over and over, how he sort of breaks down over a stain on a cravat. With Laurens, such behavior is completely unnecessary, and the shine on his shoes is no doubt by the hand of someone he considers below him. Burr bristles.

Laurens seems not to notice his eyes adrift over his frame. “You and I have lost an aspect of our relationship with someone very dear to the both of us, each in our own way.” He looks at Burr sympathetically, and Burr knows what he means, of course, but something about the way he’d phrased it makes Burr curious, though he knows he will regret this curiosity much like all his others.

“Our own ways,” he hisses, against his better judgement. “How do our ways differ?”

Laurens cracks a smile, absolutely evil. Washington, anyone under John’s spell, would describe it as mischievous. “I came to settle those differences,” he says slowly. “But I feel they must be aired before we can do so.”

He takes a step toward Burr. Burr remembers himself just in time to hold his ground. He will not be backed into a corner of his own office. Laurens keeps advancing, and Burr bends his knees so they will not lock. “I remember Alexander asking you once what you wanted, Burr,” John says as he stalks toward him. “You never gave him an answer. Pray tell, is it because what you wanted was liable to be shamed? We know now that you crave what’s unavailable, and that sometimes you get it - oh, don’t look at me like that, Burr, don’t worry. I have no reason to out your little tryst. But I confess myself curious, all this time later...” and here they find themselves only inches apart, and John, with his knuckles, digs into the side of Burr’s hip. Hardly a tender touch, almost a threat. “What is it that you want? Is it Alexander? Is it his lithe little body against yours?” He leans forward, pushing Burr backward over the desk, and licks his earlobe, making him shiver violently. “Is it the ease with which I call him _Alexander?”_ He lilts the name cruelly, enunciating very slow to emphasize each syllable.

Burr has need to shove him away, throw him out, but something about his weight is making him want to stay pinned. He tries to inch back to give himself some distance, thinking maybe just an inch of breathing room will let him find the willpower, and finds his feet rising from the floor as Laurens just pushes further. He sits on the desk, over his papers and books. Laurens against his chest. Laurens’ groin against his. Something stirs violently in his gut - this feels wrong, this _is_ wrong. But he wants it. He chokes a sob down in his throat as he realizes it - he wants it.

Laurens has unbuttoned some of his shirt and his tongue is snaking across his collarbone, and it’s filthy, exactly as disgusting as Burr would have expected. John’s knuckles are brushing against Burr’s stomach as he works the rest of it open, and then he’s bare in front from the waist up, and he has an intense craving for Laurens to match. John is talking, taunting, the entire time as Burr undresses him. “Did you ever think about us, Burr? Did you ever imagine yourself in my place? I know you knew, with your pathetic looks and the way your face just fell when you saw me with him. Did you ever think about precisely how I’d lie with him, drive him crazy, make him mine?” He grabs onto Aaron’s hands, stilling them, and Burr looks up at him. There are tears in his eyes, he knows. “How often did you wish he was yours?”

Aaron shakes him off, keeps unbuttoning his shirt. Laurens’ body is tight and compact, his tawny skin dotted with dark freckles. His chest is strong and his shoulders broad for his size. Aaron pushes his shirt back to hang from where it is tucked into his breeches and runs his hands over him, and John tips his head back, ever-so-slight. His mouth is open just a bit and he watches him, and Burr knows better than to mistake the hooded eyes for a sign of being less alert.

John buries his face in Burr’s shoulder, bites down. “God, I’ve only not had him for a week and I already ache for that ass, Burr. I can’t imagine how you must feel, going so long without it. He feels so good, he’s like a kitten, purring for you. And he gets so eager and he _begs,_ Burr, actually begs you for it if you hold out long enough.” Burr sobs. He remembers every time he’s imagined Hamilton spread out for him, strung out and debauched, frantic with need.

Tears leak from his eyes despite his vehement efforts to keep them at bay as Laurens goes down to his knees, unbuttoning his trousers. He realizes with a start that he is hard, and Laurens takes him in hand, appraising him. “He’d like this,” he says finally, licking his lips. “He’d take it nice. He’d whine, but he’d open up for you eventually and then he’d thank you for it. It’s prettier when he fights a little,” John tells him, and nods, as if it’s completely professional.

And then John wraps his mouth around his cock, and Aaron forgets about Hamilton for a few blessed moments.

He buries his hands in Laurens’ hair, undoing his braid from the top down, and Laurens hums and sinks down on him further. Aaron thanks God that his eyes are closed - he couldn’t handle their teasing gaze right now, the knowing glint that always shows when the man looks at Burr. He pulls John down roughly to his groin, so his nose presses against the thatch of hair at the base of his dick and he can feel John’s throat working around him, struggling but John takes it impressively.

He comes back up gasping for air, and pulls off to work Aaron’s cock with his hand, a stroke too light to bring him the promise of relief. “You’re a fucking slut, too, I see,” he says, and it’s ridiculous to think such things would sound so sure coming from the mouth of a man on his knees, “but I guess I already knew that. We all know, Burr, of your utter desperation. You bury yourself pretty regularly in that cunt you’re seeing? Bet you hope it chases some of your little crush away.” He squeezes Aaron’s dick playfully, and Aaron yelps. “Does it help, Burr? Or do you go home from your rendezvous and dream of my Alexander underneath you?”

Burr tries to protest - say weakly, _He isn’t yours anymore,_ the only thing he can argue in truth - but John’s mouth goes back to his cock, and now he’s working the head, laving his tongue indulgently over it as if he’s trying to memorize his taste. Aaron is unable to get the leverage he wants from this position, so he lays back, and John goes with him, standing smoothly even as he sucks to bend at the waist and continue working him off. He looks up at Aaron, now, and Aaron turns his head to look at the wall.

Laurens takes his hand and guides it back into his hair, an invitation, and this - this, Aaron can handle. He keeps his head right where he wants him, and Laurens makes a little whimpering noise and huffs air out through his nose as he bucks up into the welcoming heat of his mouth. He’d tell him how good he’s being if he were anybody else, whisper something sweet to encourage. But John seems perfectly happy with quiet unless it’s his own mouth running, and he’s confident, too - he flexes his tongue expertly even as Burr fucks his mouth, and John doesn’t even push up on the desk to keep his distance, just buries his face into Aaron’s belly and stays there, even when Aaron tries to pull him off.

By the time John’s decided to pull away, Burr’s panting, a bit frantic. He still can’t believe this is happening, someone he resents from afar here, in his office, for what Aaron can only assume is an especially drawn-out mind game. At the moment, he can’t really bring himself to care. It feels too good to roll over when Laurens tells him to - it feels too good when Laurens yanks his trousers further down and palms at his ass.

Laurens hums thoughtfully and spreads his cheeks apart, and Aaron waits. He is good at waiting. He is patient. He will slam himself back onto Laurens when the time is right, when the opportunity strikes, but for now he will wait to be given what he’s so desperate for, because he knows it will be better in the long run. There’s another thing they never teach these rich boys, these kids who’ve never gone hungry, for food or validation, in their lives - the value of patience, of savoring. Aaron lets the heavy air sink in through his skin, into his bones, enjoys the haze of sex that he’s familiar with, the added, sharp edge of hate blurring the corners. He lets himself focus on the tightness in his belly, the orgasm inching further and further off as Laurens continues not to touch him. He has been outright denied before, but he thinks Laurens doesn’t actually care if he comes or not.

Laurens brought oil. At least he is that educated. At least he is that considerate. Aaron lets himself press against the desk and arch, lets his desire show. Laurens chuckles darkly and slips a second finger inside him, expertly finds his prostate, and Aaron keens. He is not used to such focused attention, and John is rubbing small circles into the spot, making him wrench his back to raise his ass to the curling of John’s fingers. John breathes against his hole and before Aaron has any time to anticipate he’s licking his way in next to his fingers, swirling his tongue around the opening before flexing the firm muscle just inside. Aaron whines, then, lets it out low-pitched and needy, and John must find it enticing because he wiggles his fingers wider apart to stretch him wider and speeds up his tongue. Aaron finds himself in a predicament - he can’t wait anymore, but the table under him will provide no suitable relief, and this realization provokes another whine and Aaron is forced to admit he’s no longer in control here; he’s forced into the conclusion that he no longer wish to wait.

He reaches back and spreads himself open to keep focused on something, and John sighs against him, as if in approval. Aaron moves his hips to encourage, and Laurens continues his pace until Aaron is melted, a mess spread out on his own desk. Laurens pulls back, pulls his fingers out but doesn’t break their contact; he keeps his hand on the crest of Aaron’s ass. It’s a small comfort, but an effective one. Aaron shuts his eyes, regulates his breathing.

John smoothes his hand up to the small of Aaron’s back, under his shirt where it still drapes over him. His palm is cool and calloused, and Burr feels a shiver run from where it lays on him up to his shoulders, and it shakes a few more tears loose from his eyes. He doesn’t know where this is coming from - the sudden tenderness of his touch in contrast with Laurens’ earlier mocking, it’s almost too much. And no matter how hard he tries, Aaron can’t push the thought of Alexander from his mind, and it’s finally out in the open, and he feels stripped bare and laid out for torment under John and he can’t decide if this is all helping or if it’s making things worse, but he wants it, feels ripe under his touch.

Before he knows it, John is pushing forward and the breach is less painful than he’d expected, really, and he curses Laurens for being so adept at getting him ready. It makes it harder to hate this, to hate him - the slide of John as he buries himself within him is exquisite, completely awful. Aaron practically feels himself crumble to dust.

John groans, long, drawn out, as his body presses full against Aaron’s ass, sharp hipbones poking into the flesh. “God… I never dreamed, Burr,” he says, “would have never guessed that you were so tight and perfect.” It feels backhanded but Burr lets it go, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He bites his lip and tries to keep back the noises he’s compelled to make as John starts to move, setting a steady rhythm that lets him feel the drag of every inch of him. There’s something exciting about not having seen his dick before he’d sunk it into him - he has no exact knowledge of its size, but he feels big, perfectly curved when he hits him just right on the instroke.

John is hasty, and impatient, and eventually Burr feels him adjust. He props a knee up on the desk beside Burr’s body, and Aaron gasps as he bottoms out again and again, suddenly moving much faster and at a different angle. He feels impossibly full, and the air is knocked out of him again with each and every thrust. John’s long, loose hair hangs like a coppery curtain on Aaron’s shoulders, tickling him with his curls. He leans in, and does not kiss him, though he runs his lips and teeth up Aaron’s jawline to his ear and bites down on his earlobe, then directs his attentions to the side of his neck, nipping at him in a ghost of what he could do if he sealed his lips and sucked.

Aaron lies there, takes it for a while. John’s body is strong and his stamina is impressive. He pounds away at him, hands all over from Aaron’s short hair to the soft pudge at his side. For the billionth time, Aaron fights with himself in an attempt to shove the thought of Hamilton away. John reaches down to fist his cock and his vision goes white for a moment, and he thrashes on the desk. John sort of laughs, low, under his breath, as Aaron hits release, and he presses his lips to the sweaty nape of Aaron’s neck - it’s still not a kiss, but it is a comfort. Aaron will take it.

Aaron feels all unspooled and lies there loose as John finishes up, and he is pleased to find that he wasn’t going so quick and hard for his benefit - the man seems overcome, his hips working crazy fast as Aaron’s heartbeat slows loud in his ears. Laurens finishes with nothing more than a sigh, and Burr groans as he withdraws, spend and lubrication dripping out onto his skin and making him feel used and gross.

John turns him over and lets him lick his dick clean - _Oh, honey, I knew it,_ he says smugly, and Aaron doesn’t really know what it means but he hums in response - and Aaron’s blush rises full on his cheeks as he tucks himself back into his breeches, rights his shirt again.

Aaron craves - he doesn’t know what he craves, but he’s not used to this. He’s not used to the formality, the clinical way John appraises him and adjusts his clothing once he’s got him buttoned up again. He appreciates the gesture, but, even more than a sudden drop in tone, it seems too friendly, too familiar. He has never liked John Laurens, but he realizes now that since he and Alexander are so often together that he smells a bit like him, has similar mannerisms, a similar way of tending to you, of looking at you with eyes wide with care without so much as realizing they’re doing it. John fixes his cravat in an almost maternalistic way and walks around the desk to straighten some of his papers. He doesn’t speak. Burr studies him.

It’s still not Alexander, but Aaron will take it.


End file.
